


All Hallows' Eve

by Damien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Do all writers hate their own writing, I am awful without a firm plotline, M/M, Myc/Gregory nickname OTP, mystrade, or just awful in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damien/pseuds/Damien
Summary: The Holmes men are not ones for fancy dress parties, or celebrating silly pagan traditions, but they can be convinced.





	All Hallows' Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostinthecorner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthecorner/gifts).



> I literally have no idea what to title this, so I may come back and edit it and give it an actual title.
> 
> I'm not especially proud of this, but it's not absolute garbage so that's a thing.
> 
> It's based on American Halloween so if it's supposed to be different in England, I apologize.

Entering his tiny flat, Greg throws his tie roughly in the direction of the coat rack, along with his jacket. The crispness of the autumn air had caught him by surprise, but thankfully his jacket provides enough insulation to avoid him doing the potty dance to increase circulation. Glancing toward his bedroom while slipping off his shoes, he notices that the door, normally left ajar, is closed. Tucked well out of the way, unlike his own cheap and moderately dressy shoes, are a pair of gorgeous, nearly brand new looking Oxfords tucked way back.  
“Unobtrusive as always, Myc.” Greg thinks to himself with a smirk, chuckling a little and shaking his head. Smile still firmly fixed on his face, Greg cuts through the dining area, covered in stacks of papers in his boyfriend’s distinctive shorthand, in the equally distinctive green ink he favors.

In the kitchen, Greg pulls down an extra large bowl, full of various candies from around the world. In his other hand, Greg carries two glasses of the best scotch the British Government can buy.  
Tapping lightly with his foot, Greg waits outside the door to his own room, feeling the excitement of a teenage boy. Sure, they’ve been through everything from terrorism to nearly losing someone very important to each of them together, but the love and mutual respect always feels like the relationship is brand new.

Getting no response, Greg sets the bowl onto the coffee table, slides the bin closer to his side of the couch, and sets the scotch glasses down in front of the bowl. Deciding that Mycroft is busy, Greg downs his glass, then walks into the bathroom to shower.

When he exits, the door to his room is still shut, so he walks to the hall closet and grabs out a garment bag, smiling goofily at the contents. One drunken night, a few more years ago than Greg would likely admit, he had been trying to impress a young lady with his wit, and he needed a Halloween outfit for a fancy dress party she had been throwing. His outfit he had been wearing during a particularly bad accident, including his scuffed bike helmet, lead him to a zombie biker look.

Zipping the bag back up, he carries it into the bathroom, removes a small leather satchel, and sets to doing the makeup before Mycroft can complain.  
At a knock on the door, Greg shouts “Just a tick, love.” and finishes by unstrapping the chin strap of the helmet, using it as a leash. Putting on his best zombie face and walk, he strolls out in his scuffed and torn leather pants, torn t-shirt with actual blood, battered boots and jacket, and mottled skin. In the darker living room versus the incredibly well-lit bathroom, Greg looks even more terrifying.

With a roll of his eyes, Mycroft strolls past, stoping for only a second to take an inconspicuous glance at the leather-clad bum.  
“I’m not going to a fancy dress party, even if it is Halloween, Gregory.” Mycroft states plainly, closing the bathroom door almost as if he could physically shut the conversation.

“Aww, come on, Myc. It’ll be loads of fun, and we can leave at any time just to come back here.” Greg begs, jovial and pleasantly buzzed. “Even if it’s just for half an hour, I’d consider it an early Crimbo present.” Lestrade shifts the satchel containing his halloween makeup, eyeliner, badge and ID, and a few other odds and ends.  
A firm “No.” comes out of the bathroom, but Greg simply shrugs, walking into the bedroom to look for the perfect costume.

With a little digging, he finds a piece of an old costume, a Slytherin robe from Harry Potter. Grabbing it and giving it a sniff to make sure it’s not musty, Greg assembles an outfit for under the costume robe out of the various suit pieces of Mycroft’s, and simply sets them out on the bed. Using the door of the wardrobe, he hangs the cloak in front of the mirror, then closes it most of the way.

“Myc, I laid out a rather fetching outfit for you, if I do say so myself. I think you’ll like it.” He sing-songs to himself, mischief sparkling in his eyes.  
A long-suffering sigh precedes Mycroft into the room, and he quirks an eyebrow at the particularly green choices. “So, I presume that this has nothing to do with a certain article of magically themed outerwear that has been tucked into the back of that wardrobe as long as I’ve known you?” Mycroft turns his eyes onto Greg, a tiny hint of a smile on his lips. At the chaste peck he gets, and Greg’s nervous fidget, he smiles a bit more.

“I mean, I think you’d be handsome as hell as a Slytherin, and green seems to be your favorite color, so it only makes sense.” Greg uses his thumb to wipe a small bit of his face paint off of his boyfriend’s lip, smiling his dazzling smile.  
With another sigh then a few notes of “Anything for love” by Meatloaf whistled, Mycroft heads off with his costume, thankfully all his own clothes, and showers.

When he exits, adjusting his tie to be nice and tight, he finds Greg seated on the couch, a small pile of wrappers in front of him on the table despite the bin.  
“Quite slovenly, Mister Undead Biker, aren’t we?” Myc teases, a full grin on his mouth.  
Greg turns quickly, catching sight of just how perfectly tailored the suit is. Each perfect curve, every line, and each piece fit perfectly on Mycroft, down to the pinstripes on his trousers seeming to be darker in areas Mycroft would want hidden. With a lazy grin, Greg turns back to the table, sweeping the wrappers into the bin. Without the jacket on, the facial makeup and zombie hand gloves seem incredibly strange next to the tanned skin, enough to make Mycroft chuckle just a little.  
“Mister Undead Biker, your skin seems to be reverting back from the elbows out. I’m unsure whether to be fascinated, or glad,” the auburn haired man teases, slipping his phone into the jacket pocket. “Since we must go to this party, I do think it’d be prudent to leave soon, possibly before anything too crazy happens.” Pulling back the jacket sleeve, Mycroft notes the time and taps one finger on it, the international symbol for ‘hurry the hell up.’

Stretching, then shambling to turn off the TV, Greg grabs his leather jacket, keys, and a kiss, watching his boyfriend tap out a quick text. Back at the wardrobe, he grabs out the wand and robe, which Mycroft gives a slightly disapproving look.  
At the buzz of his phone, Mycroft and Lestrade step outside, to the waiting car.

In the rented hall, orange paper lanterns painted like carved pumpkins, rubber bats and fake spider webs hang from the ceiling. An event, open to the public to avoid drunken driving, the yearly Halloween parties always drew more and more people. The official start time had only been maybe a half hour earlier, but it’s still packed.

Squeezing and shambling through, Greg leads Mycroft through the hoard of people to the far right corner, where a card table only seating four had been set up. Dressed in a yellow and black striped jumper, black slacks, and with little bobbly antennas with bees at the end, Sherlock looks every bit a bee. In a hazmat looking suit, which makes Greg snort a little laugh, John is clearly a bee keeper.

“How fitting.:” Mycroft whispers near his ear, which only serves to make Greg snort out another laugh.

Sherlocks eyes travel around the bruising on Greg's face, seemingly finding it satisfactory, and he nods politely. “Lestrade.” he offers as a greeting. “Mycroft, I wasn’t aware you still enjoyed children books.”

John scowls at Sherlock, having clearly given him the command to play nice, but instead turns to the sitting couple and smiles a bit. “Hello, Greg. Greetings, Mycroft. Glad you both made it, and in costume no less.”

Greg turns to John, laughing, and recounts the week-long struggle of getting his Holmes brother to submit to it. Not to be outdone, John explains how he’d spent months having each costume idea shot down.

A tap on his shoulder pulls Greg out of his conversation, and he grins up at Sally, dressed in a long, flow dress reminiscent of a certain blue Police Box. Standing, he squeezes Mycroft’s shoulder, then plants a kiss on his cheek. As they walk away, Mycroft glances after him and Sally, a little grin on his lips.

“Quite a sociable one, that Lestrade.” John remarks, watching Greg shamble and groan as though he were an extra in a mediocre Zombie movie, rather than a Detective Inspector at a community party.

Mycroft and John watch the partygoers together, making snarky comments as Sherlock sits, focused entirely on reading the lips of a potential murderer in his latest case. Holding out his hand, he silences his brother and partner, which just results in Mycroft spinning around, reading the man, and confirming that he’s definitely the murderer. With only a few quick taps, the man is lead away by a discreet gentleman, until they get into a side hall and the man begins yelling.

Shrugging, Sherlock goes back to tracing the dots on the tablecloth into skull and body shapes with a pen, while John reminds him that it’s impolite.

Greg sits back down, handing a cup of some sweet, black cocktail with a pumpkin lollipop taped to the rim, to Mycroft. “Punch, love.” He sips his punch, lollipop stick pointing off like a thin cigarette.

Mycroft sniffs the drink, looks at Greg, and quirks an eyebrow, questioning how alcoholic it is.

With a shrug, Greg sips his, smirking at Mycroft. “If we spike the punch, it stops people from spiking it without us knowing. Plus, we can ration out the booze.”

As Mycroft takes his first sip, he receives a text, cuts his eyes to Greg, then stands.  
“My apologies, Sherlock, John. It appears that I’m needed in a conference call. I hope you can enjoy the rest of the night.”

Greg stands, offers a smile to Sherlock and John, then turns to follow his boyfriend out the back of the building, to a waiting car.

“Yours or mine?” Mycroft asks, when Greg shuts the door. “Oh, right. Yours would probably be preferable, since I believe you left all the candy there, and I know you have a sweet tooth.”

Greg grins at his auburn-haired lover, then removes his Zombie hand gloves and tucks them into the satchel. Offering his clean hand, he grins wider when Mycroft laces their fingers.

“I do hope that this doesn’t take too long, I was hoping to keep you from eating the entire bowl of candy by yourself. You are aware, of course, that you’re no longer the twenty year old who can survive off a steady diet of liquor, beer, and gummy bears, correct?”

Greg laughs, a full-on belly laugh, and nearly kisses him before remembering that his face is about five different colors, and Mycroft has sensitive skin. “Aw, luv, you know that it’s only on candy holidays that I really pig out. Christmas and Halloween are the only time I really get a ton of sweets.”

Looking over at his partner’s phone, Greg watches as he types out an order for Chinese food from a takeaway place that doesn’t deliver, then realizes quickly that one of Myc’s helpers will probably show up with it.

“Actual food before all your nonsense, Gregory.”  
Mycroft kisses the back of Greg’s hand, squeezes it, and then goes back to texting while they ride in comfortable silence.

While he waits for Myc to be done, Greg strips off the costume and hangs it back up, tucking the satchel back into the bottom of the bag. In the bathroom mirror, he checks out the patches of dead looking skin, from where he had to fill in under the torn shirt. With a washcloth, he removes almost all of the makeup from his body.

After a particularly nice shower, Greg comes out to find clean underwear, his favorite pajama bottoms, and a band shirt so old the logo is faded out of existence next to his towel. Greg chuckles to himself at the thought of Mycroft in a serious Governmental teleconference while trying to pick out the proper boxers and pajamas for his boyfriend.

On the coffee table, the first thing Greg sees when he leaves the bathroom, there are chinese food boxes, goblets with skeletal hands holding the plastic cup part, and a bowl that looks like it’s made out of black spider webs holding the candy. A napkin with ghost eyes covers a bottle, and Greg laughs at how great it is, his partner who always seems indifferent to holidays going all out for him.

Sitting down on the couch and settling in, Greg sees Myc leaving their bedroom wearing black with green pinstriped silk pajamas, matching top and bottoms, with black slippers. Greg tucks his feet up, and holds his hand out to Myc as he sits on the other side of the couch.

With a little bit of pleasant chatter about the basis of the phone call, at least what Greg can safely be told, Myc serves up the Chinese food for each of them. Greg pours a bit of bourbon, from under the ghost napkin, into each of their goblets and clinks his against the other. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

They watch a little bit of television, some generic Halloween episode of a DIY show, while eating.

While Mycroft throws away the cheap, goofy paper plates, Greg pulls up Netflix on the TV and finds his favorite creepy movie, Bride of Chucky. As it starts, Mycroft sits back down, looking at Greg with that look that can only mean “Really?”

Greg curls up to Mycroft, holding up a gummy spider. “Myc, it’s Halloween. We have to eat our weight in candy and watch trashy horror movies. Otherwise, what is there to separate it from the First of November?”

Mycroft gives Greg a long-suffering sigh, then leans down and bites a leg off of the spider, grinning at the look of shock it earns him. Instead of eating the whole thing, which Greg shoves into his own mouth, Mycroft grabs a bag of peanut M&M’s, popping one into his mouth every few minutes to appease his boyfriend.

They laugh, jump, mock and enjoy the movie, Greg stuffing his face with every candy he can reach, while Mycroft nibbles a little on mostly chocolate covered nuts and fruit.

“Hey, Myc?” Greg asks, looking up from Mycroft’s lap into the amused face of his boyfriend.

“Yes, Gregory?” Mycroft asks back, scratching gently at his boyfriends scalp.

“Thanks for celebrating Halloween with me, the right way. I know you’re not big on any of this.” Before Mycroft can speak, Greg shoves a gummy spider into his mouth and laughs.

“Love you, Mycroft."


End file.
